Is There a Survivor’s Guide to Holiday Cooking?

Cooking isn’t my strong suit. I try, and I try hard, but it’s not something that comes innately to me as it does many of my friends and family members. I’m the person who meticulously measures out every teaspoon, ounce, and cup and has no clue how to deviate from a recipe. In fact, the mere thought of divergence will keep me up at night.

So, when it’s holiday time, and our homes are full of loved ones who all bring their own unique, it’s-been-in-my-family-for-generations dish, dinner essential, dessert, whatever, I’m unequivocally the one who shows up with store-bought pies and wine. 

Well, this year, I say no. Not gonna do it. I’m going all in, and everyone I know is scared.

I’m researching some pretty cool recipes that veer off the beaten path of holiday foods because, why not? If we’re doing this, let’s go big, shall we? 

So, I’m putting together my appetizer, main dish, and dessert for Christmas Day and testing these recipes now so I have no surprises when the time comes. And, lemme tell you, there’s been some surprises. 

Appetizer: I found a pear, watermelon, rum, and blackberry salad that looks delightfully beautiful, colorful, and oh-so-fancy. It’s impressive. And easy. Exactly my MO. 

But let’s talk about watermelons for a sec. I hate ‘em. For starters, they are way too big and heavy. I work out regularly, and I still use a dolly to get a watermelon from my car into my kitchen. 

But then, once it’s inside and, obviously, not in my fridge because of all the takeout containers, it ends up sitting on my countertop, rolling all over the place, an ever-present eyesore, mocking my inability to cut it strategically and seemingly understanding that when I finally make that initial cut, there will be consequences in the form of sweet-smelling juice that will remain in secret kitchen crevices for the duration of said kitchen. 

Why are we not talking more about the absolute ridiculousness of cutting watermelons? Where’s the support group for this? Watermelon stress is real.

True story: I once had a friend cut up a watermelon in her kitchen while talking with me nonchalantly, with zero fear in her voice, no waver whatsoever, just cutting it up, with a three-foot knife blade, barely looking at it as she did so. And I’m here to tell you, I can’t be friends with someone like that. Is she a psychopath? Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s a risk I’m not willing to take. 

Main dish: I found a delectable spicy chicken thigh recipe. But, wait, chicken thighs… There’s so much going on here. Turns out, I have an all-encumbering fear of cooking with chicken thighs, even though I love to eat them. 

Please tell me: What is happening on that unhinged, chaotic side, the side that looks like a fatty, melting, mess of irrationality; the side that has no integrity whatsoever? What is that, and how do you handle it? No, seriously, I mean, literally, how do you handle it? Does it not just fall apart in your hands? Because it does in mine. 

And how come it unfolds so much? Are you supposed to unfold it? What are the pieces that fall out of it when you do? Do you need those? Do you stick those back in? Or on? Like, just, set them on top of the chicken thigh before cooking? 

Just, all of it is no. There is a level of reckless abandon when cooking these things, and do I need this added discomfort during the holidays? Is it worth it? Nope. It’s not. 

Dessert: We’re from Ohio, so it’s gotta be buckeyes. Rich, chocolate-covered peanut butter balls? Yes, please. 

But, okay, hear me out, cleaning peanut butter out of a measuring cup has got to be the least empowering thing I’ve ever done in my life. I’ve never felt more like a failure than I do when cleaning up peanut butter.  

First of all, I don’t like the feeling, so I don’t want my hands in it. Wet peanut butter is gross. Unsettling. Unnatural. And unwavering. It’s just staying on my hands, even though I’m washing them? What? Where is the science behind this? 

So, okay, fine, grab the sponge to help out. Is it possible that that’s even worse? The peanut butter just sticks to the sponge but also remains in the measuring cup and on my hands, so you have to put everything under running water and just keep squeezing and cleaning while trying not to actually touch more peanut butter. But that’s impossible because it’s everywhere. Yet somehow, none has actually been removed from anywhere, and now there’s a sticky smear of it from my wrist to my elbow? How? 

I mean, I love the holidays, but cooking for them? It’s simply not in my wheelhouse. Maybe, for everyone’s sake, I just need to accept my fate of bakery-bought pies and grocery store wines.

But I did learn more than I bargained for in this little cooking trial, and it was a potent discovery. 

You people who cook, love it, and are great at it; you’re incredible. It is a superpower. 

You handle it. You manage it. Gross, sticky, fatty, smelly; you just do it. You’re on it. And you turn 

all that disorder, all that pandemonium, into edible, filling, delicious morsels of love that people like me get to devour with ease. And I just really appreciate you. You’re an artist. 

Thank you from all of us who only have the ability to serve up plated culinary casualties. 

Now, I need to rinse the peanut butter from my hair and off the ceiling, then mark myself safe from my latest kitchen disaster–a family-instituted wellness check that started after “The Great Blender Incident of 2022.” But that’s a story for another time. 

Have a terrific holiday and happy cooking this season and all year long!